Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(43)

“Talk about a mess.” Clark’s voice sounds from my phone on the edge of the sink as I do what I can to patch myself together. “Try dealing with a case involving the park police, the locals and the FBI. And meanwhile, the chief medical examiner of Virginia and those answering to him don’t feel a crime was committed.”

“I’m curious why Elvin Reddy showed up to begin with.” Unzipping my makeup bag, I certainly can see that Dorothy rummaged through it for a sewing kit.

“I don’t have a clue. All I can tell you is we picked up Doctor Reddy’s DNA and excluded him. That’s the contamination I’m talking about.”

The investigation never went anywhere after it was determined by my predecessor that the death wasn’t due to violence.

“Samples were never tested or entered into a database,” Clark says, and now I’m really appalled.

“Are you suggesting that the FBI never ran the DNA through CODIS?” I’m hoping I didn’t hear him right.

“It’s my understanding that no profiles from the Cammie Ramada case were uploaded into CODIS,” he repeats.

“Why not?” I ask, and just when I think Elvin couldn’t be more negligent or incompetent.

“A submission can’t be a fishing expedition.” Clark recites the usual CODIS protocols that I know so well.

The DNA profile must be from the suspected perpetrator, and there isn’t one if no crime was committed. Contaminated samples aren’t allowed, and he knows as well as I do that bureaucratic obstructions can be gotten around if one is motivated by justice instead of self-interest or laziness.

“A murder doesn’t go away because someone decides it.” Staring in the mirror I go easy with the eyeshadow, just a touch of brown. “If Doctor Reddy had left the case pending because he wasn’t sure what happened to her? The evidence would have been tested, and we likely wouldn’t be having this conversation, Clark.”

“I don’t disagree.”

“So, here’s what I’d like you to do.” I pick up the eyeliner pencil. “I want you to treat Cammie Ramada as the coldest of cold cases, and start over.”

“What do you mean, start over? The case is closed.”

“I’ve just reopened it. Let’s see what’s left of the evidence collected from the scene, the autopsy.” I brush my hair back from my face, looking at my reflection, and it could be worse. “Anything that might be a source of DNA with the thought in mind that her death might not have been accidental.”

I tell him to pay special attention to swabs taken from the body, from skin surfaces, inside orifices, and under the fingernails.

“And whatever Cammie was wearing when her body was found,” I add while texting Lucy, asking her to see what she can find out about the victim.

“She was clothed when she was found, it didn’t look like a sexual assault,” Clark says as I text Marino next.

I let him know that I’m going to need his help later in the day. He’s to stand by and I’ll get back to him. In the meantime, I need him to find out what he can about Cammie Ramada’s death this past April.

“Running tights, shoes, a long-sleeved jacket.” Clark recalls what she had on when she died. “Again, you’ll see from the scene photographs.”

Lucy answers me with a “copy that” thumbs-up. She’ll see what she can find out. She and Janet both will, I guess.

“We still have swatches we removed from her clothing but never analyzed,” Clark says.

“How much of this is at the FBI labs?”

“They took the samples they wanted. But most of the evidence is still here.”

“I want your lab to get started right way with rapid DNA testing,” I tell him. “Any unknown profile or partial one we’ll also want submitted to CODIS, and if we come back empty-handed we try forensic genealogical testing next.”

“You do realize these samples still aren’t going to meet the CODIS standards for submission,” he warns as another message lands on my phone.

Have heard about the Ramada case, a weird one, Marino has texted me back.

“The FBI’s database isn’t the first whistle stop. We are.” I carry my phone as I leave the bathroom, still talking to Clark.

I ask him to compare any unknown DNA profiles or partial ones in Cammie’s and Gwen’s cases. And to do it as quickly as possible, I remind him as I open my closet, wondering which suit to wear. “If it turns out both are homicides and they were killed by the same person, we have to worry that someone else may be next.”

WINDSHIELD WIPERS DRAG ACROSS the glass in a light rain at half past ten, more volatile weather on the way. Traffic is slower and more snarled than usual, and that’s saying a lot as congested as it normally gets in this part of Virginia.

Benton is at the wheel of his Tesla SUV, wearing amber-tinted glasses in the fog to cut down on the glare. He’s changed from his earlier tactical attire into one of his impeccable suits, charcoal gray with pearl pinstripes, and over this a long black trench coat.

As usual, he’s far more the fashion statement than I am in my simple Prussian blue pants suit, my sensible low-heeled ankle boots with nonslip soles. My dark brown jacket is made of a quilted waterproof fabric, nothing fancy. I might have gone to the trouble of wearing a skirt and dressier shoes were I feeling more energetic.